stripped from her body and the blood beneath allowed to run,
leaving her nerve endings exposed and raw. She felt as if the
414
The Talismans of Shannara 415
purpose of her life had evolved into a testing of her will and
endurance. She was sick at heart and empty in her soul.
“She was just a Squeak,” Stresa had hissed to her uncon-
vincingly when he had found her toward midnight. She had
told him of Faun’s death, but death was nothing new to Stresa.
“They grow up to die. Wren of the Elves. Don’t trouble your-
self about it.”
The words were not meant to hurt, but she could not help
challenging them. “You would not be so quick with your ad-
vice if I were grieving for you.”
“Phhffft. One day you will.” The Splinterscat had shrugged.
“It is the way of things. The Squeak died saving you. It was
what she wanted.”
“No one wants to die.” The words were bitter and harsh.
“Not even a Tree Squeak.”
And Stresa had replied, “It was her choice, wasn’t it? ”
He had gone off again, deep into the forests west to keep
watch for what might come that way, to bring warning to the
Elves if the need arose. They were drifting apart, she sensed.
Stresa was a creature of the wild, and she was not. He would
go out one day and not come back, and the last of her ties with
Morrowindl would be gone. Everything would be consigned to
memory then, the beginning of who she was now, the end of
who she had been.
She wondered that her life could evolve so thoroughly and
she feel so much the same.
Yet perhaps she lied to herself on that count, pretending she
was unchanged when in fact she was and simply could not ad-
mit it. She frowned into the gloom, searching the killing
ground below, and she wondered how much of herself had sur-
vived Morrowindl’s horror and how much had been lost. She
wished she had someone of whom she could ask that question.
But most of those she might have asked were dead, and those
still living would be reticent to answer. She would have to pro-
vide her own answer to her question and hope her answer was
true.
Padishar Creel’s lean face glanced in her direction, search-
ing, but she did not acknowledge him. She had not spoken
with any of them since rising, not even Triss, wrapped in her
solitude as if it were armor. The free-bom had come finally,
416 The Talismans of Shannara
bringing with them Axhind and his Rock Trolls, the reinforce-
ments she had prayed for, but she suddenly found it difficult to
care. She did not want the Elves to perish, but the killing sick-
ened her. Yesterday’s battle had ended in a draw, settling noth-
ing, and today’s did not promise a new result. The Federation
had stopped running and regrouped and were coming on again.
They would keep coming, she thought. There were enough that
they could do so. The addition of the free-bom and Trolls
strengthened the Elven chances of surviving, but did not give
reason to hope that the Federation could be stopped. Reinforce-
ments would be sent from the cities south and from Tyrsis. An
unending stream, if necessary. The invasion would continue,
the push into the Elven Westlands, and the only thing left un-
decided was how long the destruction would go on.
She bit back against the bitterness and the despair, angry at
her self-perceived weakness. The Queen of the Elves could not
afford to give up, she chided. The Queen of the Elves must al-
ways believe.
Ah, but in what was there left to believe?
That Par and Coil Ohmsford were alive and in possession of
the Sword of Shannara, she answered determinedly. That Mor-
gan Leah followed after them. That Walker Boh had brought
back Paranor and the Druids. That Allanon’s charges had been
fulfilled, that the secret of the Shadowen was known, and that
there was hope for them. She had these to believe in, and she
must find her strength there.
She wondered if her uncle and her cousins and Morgan